


A Manual on Deveining Shrimp

by coloredink



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Food, Food Porn, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Today, I will teach you to make a béchamel," she says, and begins by melting the butter in the pan.</p><p>(aka How Hannibal Lecter Learned to Cook)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Manual on Deveining Shrimp

**Author's Note:**

> I know basically nothing about Hannibal Lecter's back story (which Fuller will probably play fast and loose with anyway), so here, have some shit I made up about Hannibal learning how to cook.

It was spring when Hannibal came to the house.

"He has been through much," the Count told her. "Please, be as kind to him as you can."

Marie knows of few things kinder than soup, and so she warms the beef stock and slices many, many onions, very thin, until she cannot see for the tears and her nose runs freely. But her hands move the knife, not the eyes, and in short order the onions are browning in a pan, coated with butter. When they are nearly melting in their own sweetness, she adds the flour, then the stock, scraping the flour up from the bottom and stirring until the broth is thick. She adds wine, sage, more stock, a bay leaf, and then she leaves the soup to its own business. Soup has never needed anyone to tell it what to do. She toasts the bread with a little bit of olive oil and grates the cheese, and when the soup is ready, she layers the bread on top and sprinkles it with gruyere, evenly so that it will not burn. She toasts the entire affair in the oven.

By the time the soup is ready, the boy is awake and sitting in the dining room with his new family. He keeps his hands in his lap and his eyes fixed on the table. The household is so small that Marie serves the family herself, and so she places the first bowl in front of the boy, the second in front of Lady Murasaki, and the third before the Count. She stands to the side, wiping her hands on her apron for nothing else to do.

"Are you hungry?" asks the Lady. The boy does not reply, but he does seem to be looking at the soup rather than beyond it.

He eats. He eats well, as a matter of fact. The Count and the Lady relax visibly as his spoon dips into the bowl over and over again, as he crunches into the toast, scattering little crumbs to lie all over the table. Marie disappears back into the kitchen for the second course. The boy will be fine, after all.

\-----

The Count and the Lady won't send him to school just yet, for which Marie does not blame them; though she does not hear him shouting in the night, she often glimpses him when she rises to bake the bread and to make breakfast, a thin, hunched figure at the end of a hallway just disappearing around the corner.

Marie also knows that work cures all manner of ills, and so one morning she says to him, "Would you like to help?" He stares at her, and she thinks that perhaps he doesn't know French--she doesn't know where he came from, after all, but the Count's family are from east of here--and so she asks again in English. When Hannibal still does not respond, she takes him by the wrist and leads him into the kitchen. Though his muscles harden under her touch and he makes as if to jerk away, he follows her after all, his bare feet noiseless against the tile floor. She seats him in a chair in the corner and preheats the oven. His silence might frighten someone else, but it does not frighten Marie. She grew up during the war, and she has seen worse things than a mute boy.

"Did your mama ever bake bread for you?" she asks Hannibal as she shapes the loaves and tucks them into pans. He makes no response, and she says, "Bread is life. You put it in your belly and you live."

After the bread is in the oven, she gives a thought to what to make for breakfast. She wants to involve the boy. Finally, she gives him a knife and a bunch of chives. He sits in the chair just staring at them in his hands for a few moments, then finally rises from his seat and goes to the counter, where Marie has already laid out a cutting board for him.

He is so clumsy with the knife that Marie's tongue cleaves to the top of her mouth. She stops him with a hand on the back of his wrist. "Like this," she says, and nudges him aside. She holds the chives down with her knuckles, so that if she misses, the blade will only glance off the bone rather than slicing off a fingertip. She rocks the knife back and forth, moving the herbs beneath the blade rather than the other way around. He watches, and afterward mimics her actions, slowly but with finesse.

Breakfast that morning is cheese omelettes, garnished with the chives that Hannibal had chopped, and fruit, and fresh coffee. Hannibal helps carry out the dishes. "Hannibal chopped the chives," Marie announces, and the Count and Lady Murasaki act delighted. The boy does not smile, but Marie is certain it is only a matter of time.

\-----

From then on, Marie finds Hannibal waiting for her in the kitchen in the mornings.

She shows him how to peel potatoes, how to slice fruit into attractive shapes, how to beat eggs and add milk to them to alter the texture. Then she teaches him how to scramble eggs, how to fry eggs to various levels of doneness ("Your uncle prefers a looser yolk, but your aunt likes them firm."), how to poach eggs, how to make an omelette. She teaches him how to roll a pie crust and bake a quiche. ("The butter must be very cold, for a good crust.")

"You know that tall hat that chefs wear?" She mimes the toque with one hand. "You know how it has many pleats? They say that each pleat represents a way to cook an egg. Oh, there are many, many ways to cook eggs, young man. Myself, I only know a dozen or so. That is why I work here, and not in some great restaurant kitchen." She smiles at him, but he does not return it.

He never helped his mother in the kitchen, she knows. Probably he grew up in a grand house, like the kind that his aunt and uncle live in now. But he is a prodigious learner; he watches her actions without blinking, and then repeats them with grace and surety. If he errs, it is only once, and then never again. At breakfast, he helps her serve the dishes, before pulling up a seat to eat with the Count and the Lady. Marie eats in the kitchen, with the other servants.

What Hannibal does during the rest of the day is not Marie's concern. She has her own affairs to manage: she goes to the markets to buy fruits and vegetables and meat; she prepares lunch; she rolls out pastry; she tends the garden; sometimes she calls on her friends, or her grown daughter who lives with her no-good layabout musician boyfriend in Belleville. If she has time, she might take in an episode or two of The Last Five Minutes on the ancient television set in one corner of the kitchen. But sometimes she'll be peeling carrots for dinner, or cleaning mushrooms, and she will look up and Hannibal will be there, sitting in the chair in the corner or standing against the counter with his hands at his sides.

"Oh, it's you," she'll say, and hand Hannibal a knife, and Hannibal will peel potatoes, or shell peas, or shuck oysters. Marie will fill the silence, because Marie likes to talk and there has been no one to talk to in the kitchen for a long time.

"Today, I will teach you to make a béchamel," she says, and begins by melting the butter in the pan. "Butter is key to French cuisine, young man. You keep it on the counter, so that it remains soft, and it goes on bread. Cold, it goes in pastry. And it also goes in sauces, such as this." She adds a few handfuls of flour and stirs them together, so that a thick paste forms at the bottom of the pan. "This sauce is one of the mother sauces of French cuisine. I will teach them all to you. Once you know the sauces, you can cook anything. Here, the milk should not be cold when you add it, otherwise the sauce may become lumpy. Pour it slowly and keep stirring. Keep stirring, and it becomes thick. Ah, you see? Now it is béchamel. I will add some mustard seed to it, and it will go over the kidneys we are having for dinner tonight."

While preparing the kidney: "Time was when these organ meats were for peasants. Rich people wanted only the roasts, and so they gave all the other parts to their servants, the shanks and tails and ears and organs. So the peasants learned to cook them, make them good to eat, and soon enough the nobles came and took them back again, and so now the poor eat only bread. Such is the way of the world."

"It is useful to get everything in its place before you begin to cook, so that you're not leaving the sauce to burn while you're looking for something in the refrigerator. Set it up by the stove like so, so that you don't have to reach so far. This is what we call the mise en place."

And in the end: "We eat with our eyes, so it is important for the dish to be beautiful, too. It's true for people too, don't you think? Your appearance affects how people perceive you. There, doesn't that look lovely? Food must be beautiful."

\-----

One morning, while slicing ham for breakfast, Hannibal says, "I should like to go to the market with you today."

It is the first time Hannibal has spoken to her. His French is flawless. "If it's all right with your aunt and uncle."

"I'm sure it will be," he says. "But I will ask them," he adds.

If the Count and the Lady are ecstatic over Hannibal's newfound gift of speech, they make no sign. But they do permit Hannibal to leave the manor and go to the market with her, and after breakfast the driver takes them to the Aligre Market. Though she doesn't say so, she's pleased; this is the next step in the boy's education. It is all well and good for him to know how to wield a knife, but pointless if he doesn't know how to procure quality ingredients. The markets may be a little more expensive than Carrefours or Monoprix, but "life is short, and we all must eat to live. So why not enjoy yourself?"

The Aligre Market has dozens of stalls and vendors hawking fresh fruit and vegetables, a cheesemonger, a fishmonger, and several butchers nearby as well. They call out in singsong voices their wares, slicing off pieces of fruit and cheese to try. Hannibal sticks close to Marie’s side, staring wide-eyed at the baskets of berries, the bundles of flowers, the bunches of spinach and kale.

"How do you know what to buy?" Hannibal asks as Marie pores over some scallops.

"Well, I know what I need for my recipes, of course." She taps her temple with one finger. "It's all up here. But for the rest, I let the market inspire me. You can't dictate a feast; the feast must present itself. You can't eat spring lamb in the winter, eh? But winter is a good time for squash, for citrus, for cheese. Look at these fish, here." She takes him to where rows of fish lie on ice, mouths open, their scales flashing silver. "These are fresh. See how they seem to still be jumping out of the water? That's how you can tell."

They purchase a cod; Marie will roast it, with thyme and rosemary and tomatoes and courgettes from the garden. They buy some berries, for a fruit salad, and because Marie saw the way the boy's eyes lingered on them. They buy eggs and butter and fresh parsley. It's nice that Hannibal is with her, because he's strong and can carry a great deal.

That evening, while Marie shows Hannibal how to gut and clean a fish, she says, "The cheeks are the best part, you know. You wouldn't know it to look at it, but they are. It's that way with many animals, cows and pigs as well. Try it, tonight. See if you can get a piece." She winks at him, and Hannibal smiles, tremblingly at first, and then sweetly.

\-----

It all comes to an end when the Count passes away.

The manor will be sold to pay death duties. All the servants are to be let go. Hannibal insists on going away to boarding school; he says it will be easier on his aunt. Until then, Marie works herself to the bone preparing beautiful soufflés, soups, and sauces to help the pale and trembling household. She wishes she knew how to prepare some Japanese food; surely the Lady would be comforted by the dishes of her homeland now. But Marie knows nothing of such things, and so she makes simple dishes, ones that she knows the Lady likes: saumon en papillote, baked eggs, cucumber sandwiches. Hannibal helps her with all these things, making roses out of radishes and carving apples into rabbits.

"You will be a fine surgeon," Marie tells him. "You are so good with your hands. I would not fear if you were the one holding the scalpel."

Hannibal gives her a swift smile, there and gone again. He smiles more easily these days.

Two days before they are all to part ways, Hannibal says, "I wish to cook a meal for you, Marie. You and my aunt."

Marie raises her eyebrows and twists her hands in her apron. "Do you want any help?"

"No," he says. "Only, give me the kitchen to myself for a day."

So they prepare breakfast together, as they usually do, now working as a silent and efficient team. Marie makes a lunch of cold sandwiches, so that Hannibal can have the kitchen to himself for whatever magic he is preparing. At a loss for the afternoon, she goes to see her daughter (to gaze despairingly into her refrigerator, and also to chastise her for her choice in lover), and then calls upon a friend, and finally goes to the cinéma, where she fails to follow the plot of a film about a poker player who becomes involved in arms trading. There are a great many guns. 

She returns home at the time Hannibal told her dinner would be ready and finds the Lady already in the dining room, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Marie sits in the place that would normally be occupied by Hannibal, assuming that he will sit in the place normally occupied by the Count. Their places have already been set, the wine already poured. Marie doesn't know where Hannibal learned about wine; a sommelier was not among the household staff, and Marie knows very little about it beyond what is good for cooking.

Presently, Hannibal strides in from the kitchen, carrying one dish in each hand and a third on his forearm, as Marie herself did when she served the family. She smiles to see what is the first course: onion soup, with toasted bread and cheese on top. He baked the soup in individual ramekins and cut the bread to fit perfectly on top, so that Marie has to crack it with her spoon to reach the soup. "This is good," she says, and in truth, it is better than what she herself makes.

The next course is a salad of green beans, new potatoes, and hard boiled eggs, shot through with anchovies and olives and lemon juice. The flavors are fresh and vibrant, and Marie knows that Hannibal let himself be inspired at the market that morning. He looked out and saw what was good, and he took it into himself. She smiles as she scrapes her fork against the bottom of the plate.

The third course is braised veal cheek on a bed of poached leeks. The meat all but melts in her mouth, and Marie nearly moans. "What is this?" she says. "I've never tasted veal like this."

"The solicitor the other day was very rude to my aunt," said Hannibal, with a glance at the Lady. She remains focused on her food. "I spoke to him, and he apologized and provided me with the meat."

"It's delicious. Is this star anise? I never taught you this."

Hannibal smiles at his food. "You taught me everything important."

And for last, a simple dessert of berry sorbet. It is a perfect finish to the meal. Marie sucks the lingering cold off of her spoon and sits back in her seat. "The student has truly surpassed the master," she says. "If medicine does not suit you, young man, then you have a career as a chef ahead of you."

Hannibal stands and begins to clear away the dishes. "I think not. I would like for this to remain a hobby."

Marie stands. "Here, I'll take the dishes."

"Nonsense." Hannibal turns to block her with his shoulder, and Marie realizes how tall he has grown, how much his flesh fills his bones after nearly two years of Marie's butter-filled cooking. "Please, sit. Finish your wine."

She sits. She finishes her wine. The Lady gazes into the distance with her chin on one hand, the other playing with the stem of her wine glass. Hannibal returns, empty handed, to stand behind the chair that his uncle had so recently occupied, his hands resting on its back.

"I have given you a gift," he says. "It was the only one I could give. But I hope it was satisfying."

"Oh, dear boy," says Marie. "I will never forget it."

Hannibal shows his teeth. "Good."

\---end---

**Author's Note:**

> [coloredink.tumblr.com](http://coloredink.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [sumiwrites.wordpress.com](https://sumiwrites.wordpress.com/) (if you wanna see the books I've written)


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